I had a customer come in last week asking if algorithms could understand heartbreak. Kid was maybe twenty-three, holding his phone like it might have answers. "Spotify made me a playlist," he said, "but it doesn't get it." I didn't tell him what I was thinking: nothing gets it. Not algorithms, not mixtapes, not the perfect song at the perfect moment. But sometimes—very rarely—something clicks anyway.
COMPUTER LOVE SONGS is what happens when the algorithm accidentally makes something that feels true. Ten tracks, thirty-three minutes, and I'll be damned if it doesn't understand that modern love is just noise rock with a hook you can't shake.
It opens with Lana Del Rey's "A&W"—all seven minutes of it—which is either brilliant or insane for a running playlist. Lana doing her American Whore confessional while you're trying to warm up your hamstrings. But here's the thing: it works. Because love in 2024 starts with oversharing, with laying all your damage out before mile one. The algorithm knows you need to process before you can move.
Then Guerilla Toss hits with "Famously Alive" and suddenly you're not processing anymore, you're surviving. Kassie Carlson's voice doing that thing where it's half-singing, half-fighting-for-air. That's the transition—from wallowing to motion. Caroline Rose's "Command Z" comes next and yeah, we've all wanted to undo what we just said, what we just sent, who we just were. The algorithm gets it: love is wanting a rewind button that doesn't exist.
Tracks four and five—"Cannibal Capital" back to Guerilla Toss, then Disq's "Cujo Kiddies"—that's where this playlist stops being polite. Noise rock isn't background music. It's the sound of everything breaking down and deciding to keep going anyway. DFA1979 would be proud of this stretch. This is the part where you realize the run isn't clearing your head, it's just making the noise louder, and somehow that helps.
Bad Bad Hats' "Detroit Basketball" arrives right when you need something that sounds like hope might be possible. Kerry Alexander's voice has that quality—sad but not defeated. Then Sleigh Bells' "Infinity Guitars" comes in like a wall of beautiful distortion. Derek Miller's production on that track is what heartbreak sounds like when you turn it up to eleven and decide to feel everything at once.
The last three tracks—Tokyo Police Club, Yukon Blonde, Caroline Rose again—they're not resolution. They're just the part where you keep running because stopping would mean admitting you don't know what you're running from or toward. "Bikini" ends it with Caroline Rose asking questions she doesn't answer, which is the most honest way to finish.
Top 5 Bands I Was Wrong About For Too Long: Number five, Sleigh Bells—I thought they were just noise, but "Infinity Guitars" is architecture. Number four, Guerilla Toss—dismissed them as too chaotic until I needed chaos to make sense. Number three, Bad Bad Hats—wrote them off as too soft, but Kerry Alexander's voice cuts deeper than screaming ever could. Number two, Caroline Rose—thought the art-pop thing was a gimmick until "Command Z" made me want to unsend my entire twenties. Number one, Lana Del Rey on a running playlist—sounds insane, feels necessary.
The algorithm didn't make this to help you run faster. It made it because somewhere in its code, it learned that running and heartbreak use the same muscle: the one that keeps going when everything hurts. You & Me 4EVA Algorithm—maybe the algorithm understands something I don't. Or maybe it just got lucky. Either way, I'm still running to it, still trying to figure out if the music causes the misery or the misery causes the music. It never works, but that's never stopped me before.
